


a sight worth seeing, a vision of you

by jonesyyy



Category: Blaseball (Video Game)
Genre: 12x1000, Charleston Shoe Thieves (Blaseball Team), Constrained Writing, F/F, New York Millennials (Blaseball Team), Sword lesbians, Vignette, homoerotic swordfighting, non maincord compliant swearing, seasons 7-11
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-16
Updated: 2021-02-16
Packaged: 2021-03-18 20:41:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,213
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29496006
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jonesyyy/pseuds/jonesyyy
Summary: "our bodies were meant to hold other bodies, is the conclusion stu’s come to. her blade fits so perfectly against charla’s throat, fists to collarbones, hands grappling against each other, as to be holy."twelve one-hundred word scenes across 4 seasons, about two trans lesbian sky pirates surviving blaseball and, if they have the time, falling in love
Relationships: Stu Trololol/Charlatan Seabright
Comments: 7
Kudos: 11
Collections: Charleston Shoe Thieves Fanfiction





	a sight worth seeing, a vision of you

**Author's Note:**

> this beautiful format was created by [lewis atillio](https://pigeonize.medium.com/) and brought to blaseball by @crookedsaint!
> 
> title is from picture this by blondie, which i know isn't a lesbian love song but i choose to believe that it is

**1.**

stu trololol’s in the changing room, staring down at the floor through her hands. the burning hair & melting flesh smell still swims in the air.

there has always been an anger inside of her, out of place in a universe with few opportunities for piracy. why do you think she first felt the weight of a sword in her hands? - they aren’t meant for loving, you know. 

maybe she just needs another outlet. the picture of the millennials’ new player winks from her phone screen. her body aches for an anchor, something to weigh her down. 

her name’s charlatan seabright. 

**2.**

everyone in the dugout looks straight through charlatan. she keeps her eyes out for new waves of horror on their faces. it’s old horror, weary horror. a horror that’s been, gone, come back again, horror gone stale.

so here she is, and dom marijuana’s dead - is it rude to cry? the team is waist-deep in the fucking tragedy of it all, not yet numb enough to stop washing the smell of death out of their jerseys after every game. or talk to her, apparently.

the bit of her that she calls selfish screams. 

sooner or later, they’ll call it history.

**3.**

stusanna, not born but made, dragged herself up by the scruff of her neck in the sky back home. down to her bones, she knows charlatan, another thing who moulded herself out of sea-spray, captured air looking to be free.

she’s a product of home, a home that no-one here knows. she’s made in its image, stubborn, quick, a pain to navigate. no opportunities for piracy, she scoffs - she’s locking eyes with one.

she ends up sprawled on the floor, wiping a thin line of blood off one cheek - she cuts a razor-sharp grin and beckons.

‘best of three, charlie?’

**4.**

_our bodies were meant to hold other bodies_ , is the conclusion stu’s come to. her blade fits so perfectly against charla’s throat, fists to collarbones, hands grappling against each other, as to be holy.

there’s no real rage between them anymore. they each know the other’s patterns too well to hate them, know the swing of their arms that follow through to the blade, know footwork, stance, patterns. stu could parry charlatan’s thrusts in her sleep - is this the love in being known? 

stu’s fleche catches charla in a tight spot, and they down swords only to begin again.

**5.**

the shoe thieves are no stranger to being a rag-tag team - best of times, worst of times, ey? this is her family, her people, and she sure loves them like it.

through the mess of recuperation, bandages on ball-shaped bruises, stusanna dreams of sailing. goosewinged, bow cutting through the clouds like a knife. she dreams of a sky with no ground to complement it; of endless sunsets. she dreams of blaseball, of course.

esme teases, ‘so how’s that girl you’re seeing?’

a life in the atmosphere’s taught her that falling doesn’t hurt, it’s hitting the ground that does.

**6.**

sword under her chin, stu could bridge the gap between their faces in a second. they’re not going anywhere, so stu lets her eyes trace charlatan’s full lips, sharp eyes set in russet skin, kinky hair that frames her face like a portrait. to be this tangled together is a facsimile of love, and yet there’s that blade between them.

fuck it, and she pushes charla’s arm away, and their lips catch; a messy, stumbling, thing. she wants to tuck away the look on charla’s face into her wallet, but she settles for wrestling charla away.

tactical advantage, nothing more. 

**7.**

charlatan likes her team, and she likes new york. it’s season 9 and this sea of fear is on the edge of boiling, anticipatory, waiting for what finally tips the edge. season 7 is a hard time to join for any player, especially in the wake of a grieving team and a human catastrophe tearing through the league. 

of course, it’s not all fear. there’s sorrow too, and rage, and determination, and depression. she seeks light, love, she’s done that her whole life.

how much has charla known of blaseball that wasn’t hurt?

goddamnit. it’s stu. of course it’s stu.

**8.**

stu comes skidding into home base for the third time on her knees and elbows in the bottom of the ninth, of all things - like a fulfilled promise, a perfect ending. tie their hero’s journey all up with a neat little bow. (of course, it’s never that simple.) 

they love her, as she lies there in the dirt with the noise of the faceless, unidentifiable crowd booming in her ears. she’s done it.

in the dugout, cornelius and dickson hold each other.

when the thunderclap rings out across the field, she wishes that when she’d kissed charla, she’d meant it.

**9.**

‘you’re not putting up a fight, stu.’

charla’s right. stu’s arms ache from furiously swinging and swinging and swinging again, trying to hit as hard and fast as she can, desperately chasing repentance. if she’d been able to pull off that home run again, to push herself harder, she could have saved everyone, saved her family. esme had to take stu’s bat out of her hands, in the end, to stop her from tearing herself apart.

and charla takes stu’s face in her hands, and for once, stu doesn’t even attempt to put her arms out to steady the fall. 

**10.**

after everything is said and done, they’re still there.

stu walks towards charla, lit by the empty stadium floodlights, and charla wants to memorize the way they catch the blonde hair on her arms, like an aurora, to commit all of her to memory. 

the hall stars are gone, and so is the shelled one. stu had cried when she’d saw workman and doc again, and charla had felt like she should’ve cried for dom, but she couldn’t.

charlatan lets stu stay the night on her ship.

of course, there are other ways for bodies to hold other bodies.

**11.**

a pigeon is carrying a love letter.

_dear charlie,_

_i know i said that the love letters were cheesy as hell, but they’re nice. been thinking about you a lot lately. y’know. at least it’s quiet. esme says hi. she keeps teasing me about us, like, that we took so long._

_i’ve been thinking about so much, dude. i think i feel safe for once in a while but i’ve never felt safe, and i think i’m scared as hell, but really i think i want you to sit on my sofa and kiss me absolutely fucking stupid._

_S. W. A. L. K.,  
your stu_

**12.**

stu trololol’s bedside table contains three bottles.

a champagne bottle full of coral pink, smells like bubblegum, feels like being caught in the sun. love, warm and squirmy on the inside, tangled in bliss.

a jam jar filled with crisp blue, like new sheets - calm, for before games. it’ll never make the flinch leave her. but it’s enough to be held down.

an almost empty medicine bottle, a black, deep drip, that catches the light like opal. it’s the dregs of charla’s hope. stu does not open it. after all, it’s better for hope to be locked away still, unseen.

**Author's Note:**

> find me in maincord/the shoebox/lake michigan lore camp as ellis or on tumblr as jonny-dykeville! i love these two very very much and decided to give in and write about my rarepair. talk to me about lesbians any time


End file.
